Born Under Punches
by audrey hepcat
Summary: Mary Jane Watson didn't believe in love at first sight. Hell, she didn't even believe in love at second sight. But she was beginning to believe in something twice as irrational: Peter Parker. Set after The Amazing Spider-Man (with references to Earth-616).
1. Prologue

**Prologue**

* * *

**I.**

Mary Jane's first love is her father, Phillip Watson, Intensive English professor and would-be writer of the next great, American novel. She is four years old, and he is a radiant void, a jigsaw puzzle of sterile and selfish vice just waiting to be solved. His eyes are her eyes, and his smile is her smile, but his heart, black and acrid, is not her heart. Still, he loves her, and she loves him, gently and madly and, perhaps, ill-advisedly.

When Mary Jane turns five, she asks her father to marry her, and, to her delight, he doesn't laugh. Instead, he stoops low, kisses her on the cheek, and says, "Girls are not sheep, my dear, and not every man tempts them." Although MJ hasn't the vaguest idea what he means by this, she doesn't forget his words. In fact, they stay with her, always, like a reoccurring dream, and, for a while, that's enough. Then, in the fall, school starts anew, and the smell of typewriter ink fills the house. Daddy has a new idea, and this time, it's going to come up green. Aces, he says. The heir incarnate to _Catcher in the Rye_. He'll finally be able to quit his job at the college and move the family out East.

By the time MJ celebrates her sixth birthday, Phillip has all but forgotten her. Sure, he buys her a first edition of _Alice in Wonderland_, but what does that matter? He no longer dances with her, or quotes Shakespeare over breakfast, or tucks her in at night. The only time he does notice her is when she slams things or breaks things or accidently forgets to be quiet when the study door is closed. Those are the times that she can literally feel his passion, bruising in flower patterns of yellow and purple against her pale legs. But at least it's something. And she once read that hatred is better than indifference, whatever that means.

For the next few years, love blooms like a cancerous flower in MJ's mind, its definition morphing and melting into something grotesque, something self-loathing. That is, until the day she sees him take off his belt and use it on her sister, Gayle.

"I swear to God, missy – _SLAP_ – the next time you turn that radio up – _SLAP_ – I'll put your head through the wall!" The leather is so loud against Gayle's skin, MJ swears it sounds like the end of the world. This is wrong. This is NOT love. It can't be.

She tries to creep away, but gets her slipper caught on a loose floorboard. The creak is sharper than nails on a chalkboard, and she can hear the whip of her father's head. He's looking right at her.

"Whaddaya say, Mary Jane?" It sounds more like a dare and less like a threat. He's obviously drunk out of his mind.

Mary Jane doesn't say anything. Instead, she breaks apart, nerve-by-nerve, and becomes everything her sister's not. She plays with her food, throws temper tantrums, and pesters her father at every turn. But it doesn't matter, none of it does, because Phillip still cracks Gayle a good one when he finds out how much her ballet lessons have been costing the family. Ninety dollars a month that he could be spending on Jim Beam and Jack Daniels! She's lucky she didn't wind up in the hospital.

The room goes silent as Phillip scrubs a winter-bleached palm against his pants and says, "She's killing me, Madeline… You're _all_ killing me."

A few weeks later, while Daddy Dearest is off presenting honors at the college, Mary Jane's mother packs a small bag – just toothbrushes, some overnight clothes, and MJ's stuffed teddy, Tiger – and throws the girls in the car. They're done living in that prison of bruises and beatings, done tiptoeing around the ghost of someone who used to care.

**II.**

Mary Jane's second love is Cary Grant, the movie star. She is ten years old, and he is action, adventure, and intrigue in a three-piece suit. His eyes are diamonds, and his teeth are pearls, and she loves him with a premature ferocity that often destroys adult lives. He's her ideal, her Adonis, and when she sees him for the first time, twenty feet high at Uptown Theatre, a silent explosion of love takes place in the pit of her stomach. He's the most beautiful man she's ever seen, and he says the most beautiful things.

One day, following a matinee screening of _North by Northwest_, MJ decides she'll never love anyone like she loves Cary Grant, which is a crying shame, considering he's been dead for nearly twenty-five years. Still, he's everything a girl could ever want – handsome, debonair, charming, a wonderful dancer, a fine flyer. There's nothing he can't do, no beauty he can't romance, and that's why he hangs above MJ's bed, forever smiling, a dead-leaf echo of his former self.

On Christmas Day, 2006, MJ spends the night at Allie Alexander's house. It's her first sleepover, and she feels like a stranger in a strange land, so she does what the natives do: She plays Two Truths and a Lie, drinks cherry Kool-Aid, and watches _Fresh Prince of Bel-Air _reruns. Then, when all the other girls zip into their sleeping bags, MJ does the same. Only, instead of sleeping, she lies there, motionless, chasing after a dream that refuses to slow down.

Finally, at half-past eleven, MJ turns on the TV and, to her surprise, comes face-to-face with Cary Grant. This time, he's wooing Ingrid Bergman, with her cropped hair and big, bright mouth. Something about it makes MJ's insides scream, the pain red and loud. So, without thinking, without calculating the risks, she unzips her sleeping bag and applies clumsy fingers to her young matrix, the pain receding into something new, something foreign. It's only when she hears Mrs. Alexander whisper, "Mary, what on earth are you doing?" that she squeaks her release, hand trembling violently against her limp thigh.

That night, after Mean Uncle Frank is finished scolding her, MJ sneaks into the kitchen and steals a pair of paper scissors, which she uses to crop her hair short, like one of those leading ladies. The result is intoxicating. Her body is wracked by a compulsive tremor, and her palms itch with accomplishment. This is what she's been looking for: this detachment, this ease. She loved her long, orange hair more than anything, yet it was so easy to cut it all away. Rebellion is easy… much easier than sitting around all day, waiting for some dead guy to swoop in and whisk you away to a life of romance and international intrigue. That's kid stuff, after all. And when has MJ ever really been a kid?

**III.**

Mary Jane's third love is John Kroupa, the older brother of her classmate, Kara. She is fourteen, and he is a senior, the football team's star running back, bigger than a bull and twice as strong. All at once, MJ is clumsily, shamelessly, agonizingly in love with him, and he says he's in love with her, too. For several days, all MJ can do is eat, sleep, and breathe John Kroupa, her whole system vibrating with the frenzy of mutual possession, the desire to absorb another human being whole.

The first time MJ kisses John, the first time she kisses anybody, she doesn't know what to do. Her lips are quivering, and a bubble of hot poison is slowly unfurling in her stomach, so she bends her head with a sleepy, drooping movement and presses her mouth to the lobe of John's ear, her bare knees caught between his body and the dashboard. For a moment, he seems surprised, his skin heating beneath MJ's lips. However, before she can pull away, he turns his head, emits a dreamy sigh, and rubs his dry mouth roughly against hers. The kiss doesn't last very long, and, when it's over, John turns on the radio and says, "What do you think of Kid Cudi?"

That night, when MJ comes home with lipstick on her teeth, Uncle Frank gives her a strange look. It's obvious he thinks she's trash; even tells her as much. According to his rules, girls who wear short skirts and 'flaunt their bodies' are only good for one thing. It's the nice girls from good families that find husbands and love and all that crapola. Whatever. She doesn't need those things. Not now, at least. Tossing her hair nervously, she runs upstairs and locks the bathroom door behind her. She won't brush her teeth tonight, not while the taste of John's mouth is still so fresh on hers.

Two days later, in between a double shift at Starbucks, John gives MJ his varsity sweater, and she goes mad with tenderness, promising to make it up to him somehow. Unfortunately, somehow turns out to be too much necking and too little talking beneath the football bleachers after the Homecoming game. As MJ squirms like a fish out of water, John applies voracious lips to her neck and shoulder, his gorilla mitts palming the twists and turns of her soft, pubescent body. "Dammit, baby, you gotta be the finest piece of ass at this school," he says, pressing something hard into MJ's leg, and she slaps him, her soot-black lashes matted.

The blow hurts John's ego more than his face. "What the fuck was that for?"

"I don't do that sort of stuff," MJ spits back. She's trying her best to sound indignant, but it still comes out with all the moist-eyed emotion of a six-year-old. John could care less.

"What a fucking joke! Everybody at West says buying you a coke's all it takes to spread those legs. I mean, Jesus, you walk down the hallway like you're trying to get raped or something."

There is a pregnant pause. "Now, where were we?" he asks, and, quite suddenly, MJ is plunged into a nightmare of her own creation. Hot puffs of air assault her ear as deft fingers beat a rhythm against her knee, and the words 'on your back' keep replaying in her head, like the chorus to a sad, sad song.

Later that night, MJ lies in bed, hot, thick, opalescent tears burning tracks down her cheeks. She's still a virgin, yes, but she doesn't feel innocent anymore, and maybe she's not. For the umpteenth time in her too-short life, MJ mourns the loss of something she never really had to begin with. But the pity party can't last forever. She grits her teeth and pushes back the alligator tears, scrubbing away at her cheeks with the snot-covered sleeve of her sweatshirt. "Get a grip."

Mary Jane Watson isn't a crier. She's fun and flirty and fabulous, and that's the way it has to be. After all, life's a party, so why not be the cake? Or the girl with the most cake; it doesn't really matter. All that does matter is keeping it light. Let the good times roll and all that jazz. 'Cause if you don't… well, then you're just giving people all these things to talk about, all these private little prizes to steal.

"I heard she let Kurt and John double-team her under the bleachers."

MJ's stomach does a slow, lazy roll as she turns to face Mary Winkler. "It's all good," she says, her tone detached and casual. "I made 'em take turns."

Mary and her friends look scandalized. "Oh, my God, you are such a slut!"

MJ smiles, an invisible gun to her head. "Relax, Virgin Mary. It's only sex."

Damn. That sounded good. Maybe she's a better actress than she thought.

**IV.**

Mary Jane's true love, her forever and always love, is Peter Parker. She is seventeen, and he is a rigid moralist, kicking sin, cuffing crime, and assigning absolute sovereignty to tenderness, decency, and order. In other words, he's the pride of New York City, the moral compass in a wasteland of greed and corruption. The only problem is, MJ's too blind to see that maybe, just maybe, he can be her secret pride, too…

* * *

**Author's Note:** I know, I know; MJ's past is the longest FML post ever. Anyway, now that we're done with that bag of depressing, we can move on to bigger and better things (*cough* Peter *cough*). That being said, I thought it was important to lay some groundwork. After all, MJ's got one of the most heartbreaking, complicated pasts in all of comics, and you can't truly understand her relationship with Peter if you don't know how she was brought up. I mean, she may seem like a superficial party girl with skyrocketing self-esteem, but, in reality, she's an insecure kid who doesn't know what it means to love and be loved in a selfless manner. I guess that's what I'm really trying to convey in this story, especially given the character assassination my bb's endured at the hands of Joe Quesada and Stonefield fans. Dear Lord.

Like Tinker Bell, I live off applause – or, in this case, reviews – so, if you enjoyed this chapter, please leave one. I know it's a pain in the butt, but two minutes of your time really does make a difference. Plus, I love getting to know other Spider-Man fans. Feel free to PM me if you'd like to chat, or hit up my tumblr, which is linked on my author's page. It, like this story, is dedicated to my main mission: spreading Peter/MJ like the plague. Mwahahahaha!


	2. Chapter 1

**Chapter 1**

* * *

The first thing MJ ever says to Peter is, "I love Joy Division." They are sitting several feet apart in the cramped, muggy cubicle that passes for Midtown High's guidance office. It is October… The date doesn't really matter. What matters is that Peter is wearing those too-big headphones that only DJs and hipsters wear, and the clock on the wall is ticking away like a metronome. _When routine bites hard, and ambitions are low_… There is a spot of purple on MJ's thumbnail. She scrapes at it with her two front teeth. _And resentment runs high, but emotions won't grow_… Uncomfortable silences are the worst, especially when you're the new girl in town. _And we're changing our ways, taking different roads..._ Enough of this B-frickin'-S. _Love—_

"…love will tear us apart again."

Peter jerks up from his Calculus II textbook. "Huh?"

"Joy Division," MJ says, smiling as a violent blush creeps up his neck and into his ears. "They're one of my favorite bands. You have good musical taste."

The way Peter's eyes bug out, you'd swear he's never been complimented before. "Oh. Well, I, um… You like Joy Division?" Poor kid. He's not very good at the whole 'talking to people' thing, is he?

"Yeah," MJ says, nodding in what she hopes is a reassuring manner. "I mean, Ian Curtis is some kind of whacked-out F. Scott Fitzgerald, don't cha think?"

"I…"

Just then, the door to Mr. Thirlby's office swings open, and an older man emerges, his brow heavy with disappointment. "Come on, Peter," he says, his voice almost quiet, like he's not used to being stern. MJ tries her hardest not to stare. Like 99.99% of the student body, she knows all about Peter's little run-in with Flash what's-his-name, the big, dumb basketball player from her Crime and Social Issues class. Apparently, the wallflower's not always this rebellious.

"See ya around," MJ says, giving Peter a perfunctory nod as he follows his dad or grandpa or whoever that guy is out the door and into the hallway.

* * *

Later that night, while taking out the trash, MJ discovers that Peter Parker is, by some freak coincidence, her next-door neighbor. From her position on the street, she can see straight into his bedroom window, which is awash with pale, blue light. _Don't be such a creep,_ she thinks, stuffing the last of three trash bags into the tin can at the end of Aunt Anna's driveway. _You don't even know this guy. _But, for some strange reason, it's hard not to look, especially when his clothes are strewn about, and the posters on his wall are smiling at her, and it looks like a tiny tornado has ripped it's way—

"Hi there."

Ice water hits MJ's veins, and she wheels around, only to lose her footing and fall flat on her ass.

"Ooh, honey, I'm so sorry! I didn't mean to scare you."

"It's fine," MJ says, looking up at the old woman who nearly gave her a stroke. "I'm fine." She pulls two chunks of hair forward, desperate to hide the fact that her ears are now glowing like twinkle lights.

"Well, can I give you a hand?" the old woman asks, taking a step forward.

"No!" MJ bleats, embarrassment radiating in her bones. "I mean, I think I'm okay." She tries to push herself up, but folds like a house of cards the minute her sneakers hit the pavement. "Ow! Ow, ow, ow, ow, _ow! _I think I've got a—"

"Sprained ankle?" the old woman supplies, stooping low and offering MJ her hand. "My nephew's a skateboarder; I see this kind of thing all the time. Now, come inside, and I'll get you some ice."

MJ doesn't know it now – won't know it for a couple of years – but this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship.

Taking the old woman's hand, she says, "I'm Mary Jane Watson. I just moved here from Pittsburgh."

"Nice to meet you, Mary Jane Watson. I'm May Parker."

* * *

The Parkers' house is cozy and inviting, the shelves filled with knickknacks and birthday cards and photos of Peter at every conceivable stage of life. As May fills a plastic bag with ice, she tells MJ that she and her husband, Ben, have been caring for their nephew since he was only six years old, his mother and father having died in a plane crash overseas.

"My mom died about two months ago," MJ says, trying to make small talk, only there's nothing small about it. "Cancer. It was the incurable kind. _Obviously_."

May hands MJ the bag of ice, her hand lingering just a little too long. "I'm so sorry. Losing a loved one is never easy, especially when you're young. By the time you get to be my age, you start expecting it." She smiles almost wistfully, then clears her throat and says, "So, Mary Jane, how do you like Midtown?"

MJ shrugs. "Well enough, I guess. Once you've been to six or seven schools, they all start to look alike."

"I can imagine," May says.

"Sometimes, I think the only thing that really changes is my locker combination."

The confession is funnier than it should be, and they laugh together, the awkwardness dissipating into something familiar, something comfortable. MJ hasn't felt this at home in... well, forever.

"Do you and your aunt get along well?" May asks, taking a seat across from MJ at the kitchen table.

"I don't know. I guess so," she says, twisting a strand of hair around her finger and pulling until the tip turns purple. "I mean, we don't really know each other that well. Before my mom died, I'd only met her a couple of times."

"Well, she's been talking about you for weeks," May says. "I think she's very excited to have you here."

Before MJ can pin a smile to her face and say, 'Well, isn't that nice,' the oven timer goes off, and May springs to her feet, uncharacteristically spritely for someone her age.

"Hold that thought," she says, pulling a tray of freshly-baked cookies out of the oven. "I hope you like chocolate chips."

MJ raises an eyebrow. "I didn't know it was possible to _not_ like them."

"Neither did I," May deadpans, passing MJ a cookie and a napkin. "But with high school girls and their 'no fat, no carbs, no gluten' diets, you never know."

"Well, I'm a glutton for gluten," MJ says, biting her cookie in half with made-for-TV relish. "_Mmm._ Tastes like cellulite wrapped in love handles."

The older woman smiles, and MJ swears there's something conspiratorial in it. "Y'know, I bet you and Peter would get on like a house on fire."

Yep. Definitely conspiratorial.

"As long as he keeps it light," MJ quips through a mouthful of cookie. She's trying to be nonchalant, to pretend like she isn't attracted to this woman's conventionally unattractive nephew. Still, something about Peter Parker resonates with her on an almost elemental level. It's like she feels this unspoken connection to him, even though there's not a word for it.

"No, really," May says. "I think you two would hit it off."

MJ stares down at her sneakers, suddenly overcome. This conversation is getting a little too personal for her taste. "I'll think about it," she says, glancing up at May through a curtain of orange hair.

For the next hour or so, they chat about everything from reality TV to MJ's acting ambitions, the topic of Peter mercifully shelved. Then, at half-past eight, MJ hugs May goodbye, promising to return the following evening and introduce herself to Peter and Ben. Little does she know, in less than two hours, Ben Parker will be dead.

* * *

At 10:23, the bawling of police sirens startles MJ out of a dreamless sleep. She rubs the cobwebs from her eyes, then stumbles, half-unconscious, to the open window. Not twenty feet away, May Parker is standing, arms akimbo, a sympathetic-looking police officer at her side. MJ has no idea what's going on, but she can feel her eyelashes start to prickle, and she knows she's about to cry.

Sensing an emotional collapse, she crawls back into bed, pulls the covers under the triangle of her chin, and wills sleep to take her. She's dealt with enough tragedy in the past six months; she doesn't need any more. Unfortunately, her mind, like her body, is always restless, always whirring. She wants to run downstairs and throw the front door open, to yell across the patch of grass that separates her yard from the Parkers'. But she won't. After all, she barely knows them, and even looking feels like an intrusion. They don't need anyone else to witness their pain, whatever it may be.

"Mary Jane!" Aunt Anna blows through the door like a gust of wind. "Mary Jane, something's going on next door!"

MJ tries to shake her head, but can only manage a slight wobble. "I know. The sirens woke me up."

"What do you suppose it is?" Aunt Anna asks, her expression an odd mixture of pity and curiosity. When MJ doesn't answer, she adds, "May told me Peter's been acting strange these past few days."

Cold spiders of panic crawl down Mary Jane's back. "What do you mean?"

"I don't know," Aunt Anna admits. "Maybe he's on drugs."

MJ snorts. She can't help it. "He's not like that."

"How do you know what he's like?"

MJ's mind flashes back to the Parkers' kitchen. The way May had talked about Peter was the way every child wishes their mother would talk about them. "I just do, okay?"

Aunt Anna dismisses her with a wave. "Well, I'm going down there."

"Fine," MJ spits back, angry in spite of herself. "Go!"

Aunt Anna bristles, but just barely. "Sleep well, Mary Jane. I'll see you in the morning."

And with that, she's gone, leaving MJ to a bed she can't sleep in, a fan that won't cool her, and a silence so crushing, she can feel her knees buckle. _Whatever you do, don't look out the window. Don't look out the window. Don't look out__—__  
_

Suddenly, MJ hears an anguished sob and bolts to the window. Aunt Anna is curled up like a pill bug on the Parkers' front lawn, and, in a truly strange turn of events, _May_ is comforting _her_.

"You've gotta be kidding me!" MJ just about cries, knocking her forehead against the glass.

It's all too much: the flashing lights, the blaring sirens, her hysterical aunt. MJ takes a deep breath, the smallest shift in her gaze bringing her Peter's bedroom window. The lights are on, and he's pacing back and forth, back and forth, his hands shaking, his eyes watering. In this moment, MJ's heart breaks for him, the boy who listens to Joy Division. That's all she really knows about Peter Parker. That is, until he pulls on a ski mask and leaps from his bedroom window like some kind of Russian acrobat.

"Oh, my God."

* * *

By the end of the week, all Channel 12 can talk about is the city's newest vigilante, a masked man who, in his spare time, prowls the streets, beating up drug dealers and pederasts and car jackers. Nobody knows anything about him, except that he wears a tight, red sock over his head, is 'deceptively scrawny-looking' (A+ journalism on that one), and seems to possess superhuman tumbling skills. Which, of course, means that MJ knows exactly who he is. At least, she thinks she does.

One night, in between bites of the world's driest tuna casserole, Aunt Anna says, "I don't like this one bit. I mean, who does this guy think he is? _Batman?"_

MJ takes a sip of milk, desperate for something to do.

"People like that oughta be locked up. Toss 'em in Ravencroft and throw away the key; that's what I say." Aunt Anna spoons herself an overlarge helping of green beans, then asks, "How was school today?"

MJ looks up from her plate. "School was fine."

"That's good. Y'know, May Parker invited us over for dinner next week."

Screaming silence.

"I think it'd be nice if we went. After all, you and Peter go to school together, and May's one of my closest friends."

MJ's heart is ticking like a bomb in a birdcage. "I'd rather not."

"Why?" Aunt Anna asks, like it's no big deal, like Peter Parker isn't the masked man she's been taking a shit on all week. "You like Peter, don't you?"

"I barely know the guy," MJ huffs, playing the part of Indignant Teen to a T. She can't let anyone, especially her gossipy aunt, know about Peter's 'extracurricular activities.'

Aunt Anna shoots her a gray question mark of a look. "Really? Because I'm fairly certain you were the one defending him the night Ben was shot."

"And you were the one calling him a drug pusher!"

"Honestly, Mary Jane," Aunt Anna sighs, "don't have kittens."

For the briefest of moments, MJ contemplates saying something horrible, like, 'This casserole tastes like haggis,' but she doesn't. Instead, she tosses her hair and emits a breathy laugh. "Jesus, Aunt Anna, I was only kidding. I'm meeting some kids at the mall that night."

Aunt Anna's face deflates. "Which night?"

"_Every_ night."

And that's the end of _that_ conversation.

* * *

For the next few months, MJ avoids May and Peter Parker like the plague. They're in their yard, she's in her house. They want to have dinner, she's out on a date. They're coming up Kessel, she's going down. It's an intricate dance, a ballet of thinly-veiled excuses and lies, but it works.

_Not to mention, it's necessary,_ MJ reminds herself, switching off the TV as Lisa Lockwood, the blonde news anchor in the '80s-trocious shoulder pads, goes on and on about Spider-Man's victory over some OsCorp scientist named Curt Connors.

"This whole city's gone to hell in a handbasket!" Aunt Anna cries, characteristically theatric. "I mean, what kind of degenerate tries to turn his co-workers into lizards?"

MJ shrugs, because she honestly has no idea.

After a long beat, Aunt Anna says, "I hope Peter wasn't down there," and MJ can feel her nerve endings jump to life. "He's been working at OsCorp, y'know?"

"No. I—I didn't."

And that's the truth, isn't it? MJ may know Peter Parker's deepest, darkest secret, but she doesn't know where he works, or what he eats for breakfast, or who he's dating. All she knows is that she feels suffocated by the idea of befriending him. Suffocated... and terribly, terribly afraid.

* * *

**Author's Note: **Hey, guys. I'd like to take this opportunity to thank each and every one of you who read and reviewed the previous chapter. Your comments and, I'll be honest, unwarranted praise really did bring a huge smile to my face! After all, it's always nice to know that there are other Peter/MJ lovers out there who care about this craaaazy fan's interpretation of the Spidey universe. That being said, if you enjoyed this latest chapter (or even if you didn't), please feel free to drop me a line. Whether it be a review or a PM, I always love to chat it up with the MJ devotees.

Also, just to keep you lovely people in the know, I plan on updating this story at least once a week. I know, I know; waiting for new chapters is THE WORST, but I've got an unfortunately packed schedule and a chronic addiction to _Iron Chef America_ that murders my attention span. But have no fear! I have the next few chapters all planned out, and I promise they'll be packed with Peter/MJ/Gwen drama (the good, epic friendship kind, not the sad, slut-shaming kind) and maybe even an appearance from everyone's favorite pill-popping Osborn heir.


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